"Mr Frodo? What's the matter?" asks Rose, the only girl-child of the Cotton family, and not really a child at all. Frodo likes her, likes her no-nonsense sense of humour, and right now he's absurdly grateful for her down-to-earth presence.
"I... I saw my cousin Lotho, when I was out on my walk," he whispers. "At first I thought it was a mistake, and then I was glad. We'd been told he was dead, you see. Eaten by Wormtongue. But then he came closer, and..." His wan face pales even further. "The smell. He was covered in the dirt of the grave, Rose, and he was cold as death."
Frodo tilts his head to one side, and Rose gasps at the site of the livid puncture wounds.
"Oh, sir, let me fetch some hot water."
"No, no, I'm all right." Frodo's voice is suddenly dreamy, drowsy. "I... I think I would like a bite of supper, though. Perhaps there's some of that cherry pie left?"
"Yes, of course, I'll get you some."
Rose brings the food back in quickly as she can, a slice of the pie and a cup of strong red wine. She's terribly worried about Frodo's colour, which seems to have paled even further in the few minutes she was away.
He takes a tenative bite of the pie and screws his face up as if the taste was foul, taking a quick sip from his cup but finding no better refreshment there. As he moves to put the glass back on the tabletop, an arc of the liquid spills onto his sleeve. Rose moves to blot at it before it can stain, and Frodo draws in a quick breath of shock or surprise as her fingers touch his skin. She looks at his face, at the pupils dialated wide in his kindly eyes, and holds in her scream when his lips touch her throat.
~